The villain's explosive Reboot.

After being expelled from the Academy of Hearts, ported out of the floating city, my first destination was clear—the ruins of the Kaelith family mansion.

The once-grand estate stood in silence, now a crumbled remnant of what it once was. My footsteps echoed in the desolation as I approached the place that had once been my home.

Standing amidst the ruins, I fell to my knees before the scorched remains of what I assumed was once the heart of our family hall. I clasped my hands together, my voice trembling.

"Mother, Father... I ask for your blessings. Guide me when I lose my way. I—" My voice broke, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "I'll be on my way to fulfill..."

The words caught in my throat. I looked up at the gray, rain-filled sky, my laughter hollow and drenched in self-loathing. "To fulfill my stupid attempt at destroying the world by going against the hero's path."

The rain began to pour harder, soaking through my clothes, but I couldn't stop laughing.

It was the kind of laugh that came from breaking, from realizing just how absurd everything had become.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the laughter turned into sobs. Tears blurred my vision as I collapsed to the ground, my hands digging into the wet soil.

"I'm alone," I whispered to the emptiness. "Truly alone. This time, unlike my last life, there's no village to return to. No parents waiting to welcome me with open arms, no place to feel safe."

The realization hit me like a dagger to the heart. They were gone—forever gone from this world.

The people who had raised me, who had loved me despite my flaws, were now in some better place, a realm beyond my reach.

I stayed there, kneeling in the rain, letting the cold seep into my bones as grief consumed me.

After what felt like hours, I forced myself to stand. My fists clenched, my resolve hardening with every passing moment.

"I'll join you one day," I whispered to the sky, my voice steady despite the storm within me. "But not yet. Not until I've fulfilled my desire."

I turned away from the ruins, my steps heavy but deliberate.

The world had taken everything from me. Now, it was my turn to take something back.

***

I made my way to the black market, determination blazing in my heart like a steady flame. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, I had a clear goal—to sabotage Aron and everything he stood for.

My memories drift a few days back , when I signed the contract with the devil.

"There, the contract is sealed. Your soul is mine, and in exchange, you will recall all your memories in vivid detail."

The entity's voice echoed in my mind, dark and unwavering.

But I didn't sell my soul for power or strength like the foolish villains in the stories.

No, I traded it for knowledge—knowledge that could reshape destiny itself.

It was a calculated decision, one I firmly believed to be the best option in a world skewed toward its chosen heroes.

***

The information I had obtained confirmed what I had suspected. Aron clung to the narrative like a lifeline, a puppet dancing on the strings of fate. When I confronted him, I saw it in his eyes—the spark of triumph, the joy of being "right."

He wanted this. He wanted me to become the vengeful antagonist the story demanded.

But I wouldn't play his game.

My path was clear now. I had five years until Aron and his band of protagonists descended from their floating city, ready to complete their so-called hero's journey. Five years to dismantle their narrative piece by piece.

I had already succeeded in severing Aron and Serra's bond—one companion down. Without her, his path would be far rockier.

My next step was to disrupt the hero's journey itself. If the system's "chosen" faltered, humanity wouldn't crumble. People weren't so weak as to depend on a single hero. If the system relied on Aron's success to sustain its balance, then I would topple that balance.

But first, I needed resources.

I made my way to the nearby city—Stoneridge City.

Unlike the adventurous tales I'd read in novels, there were no grand adventurer guilds or heroes seeking glory here.

Instead, this world operated in the shadows of practicality.

Here, there were only hunters—individuals who risked their lives not for honor, but for survival.

But I wasn't here to register as a hunter. That kind of work didn't suit me.

No, my goals were far more... unconventional.

Stoneridge City had a reputation. Beneath its bustling streets and weathered stone facades lay a network of whispers and transactions—the black market.

I wasn't naive. Joining the black market meant playing by its rules—dangerous and often deadly ones.

But it also meant opportunity. My expertise in alchemy, my knowledge of concoctions and formulas that could shift the balance of a battle, would be invaluable here.

And if selling my skills didn't work?

Well, there were other, less savory means of acquiring what I needed. Robbery wasn't beneath me anymore. Not in this life. Survival and revenge were my only priorities.

Stoneridge City wasn't just a destination; it was my starting point. The first step in dismantling the so-called hero's path.

The black market was a maze of shadows and whispers, a haven for those cast aside by society. It was here that I would begin anew.

I made my way to one of the many sellers in the crowded market. The stall was manned by a small, bony man whose sharp features gave him an almost predatory air.

His hands moved deftly as he arranged a variety of herbs for sale, their vibrant colors and earthy scents enticing potential buyers.

Still, despite the vivid memories I had from the novel—every description and detail etched into my mind—I couldn't confidently differentiate between what was genuine and what was fake here.

Frustrating.

I couldn't help but wish for a cheat ability or some kind of golden finger like the reincarnators in other stories.

A handy skill to instantly detect lies, see through deceptions, or even just identify real herbs. But no, my fate had granted me vivid memories and a cursed sword—nothing more.

I exhaled sharply, turning my thoughts to Aron. If anyone had a cheat, it was him.

Plot armor thicker than steel and a story that bent itself to his will. He should have been a target of envy.

But I wasn't envious. Not even a bit.

Aron's flaw was his adherence to the script. He followed the story as though it were gospel, predictable and rigid.

That's where I would strike.

The story would look intact to him, following the same beats and rhythms he so loved. But the core would rot from within.

I would twist it into something unrecognizable, replacing trust with betrayal, strength with sabotage.

And when the time came—when Aron and his companions needed stability the most—they would find only chaos.

As I glanced at the herbs, the bony man eyeing me curiously, I smirked.

"The heroes downfall will be chaotic , don't you think it'll be fun?"